


Indirect

by Ryuchu



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 18:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuchu/pseuds/Ryuchu
Summary: The familiar sounds of one of his beatings.Only this time, you're not the one being hit.





	Indirect

**Author's Note:**

> I'll warn you up front - this is not a happy story. Please keep that in mind before deciding to read it or not.

The feeling that bubbles in your chest is strange.

Strange, but enjoyable.

As you go about your day, one boring lecture after another, the sensation only grows all the more intense. Bubble after bubble floats to the surface before gently bursting and sending a warm, intoxicating feeling coursing through your veins. They begin to come in rapid succession, one bubble barely popped before the next raises to take its place.

And strangest of all, you find yourself smiling.

The smile isn't big; it's not an ear-to-ear grin. However, you can't remember the last time you were able to smile so effortlessly, like it was normal and okay to be happy.

It's not until the very end of the day as you're collecting your books that you pause, English textbook still gripped in your hand.

Another bubble.

And another.

You're finally able to give a name to what you've been feeling all day.

Hope.

You can't stop a dismissive snort from escaping you as the smile drops immediately from your face.

Hope? Seriously?

The last time you felt anything even close to that was when you got accepted onto the volleyball team your first year. You had nearly jumped for joy in the middle of the hallway, reading and re-reading the list of students lucky enough to be selected for the prestigious, Nationals-winning Shujin volleyball team.

Mishima, Yuuki – 1-B

There was no mistaking it, that was your name.

The memory of the rest of that day is a whirl of pride, warmth, and - above all else - hope. There were crepes (A special treat, a one-time celebration splurge), your parents smiling (Beaming, even! You can feel their pride from the other side of the dinner table), and having to pinch yourself more than once (This is real. This is happening. You're allowed to be proud.).

This was it.

This was day number one of the rest of your life.

Maybe if you hadn't been stupid enough to be proud in the first place - maybe if you hadn't been idiotic enough to hope - what came afterwards wouldn't have hurt as much.

You always make everything worse.

It took less than three months for it all to come tumbling down.

Month one was easy. Sure, practices were tough, but all the first years were still learning. So there were some bruises, so there were warm-ups that bordered on insane – it was just usual sports stuff, nothing that anyone needed to complain about. It was the price you were all expected to pay for being on the team. After all, the second and third years had it so much worse. You counted your lucky stars that you weren't them and swore to yourself that you would do everything in your power to live up to the increasingly impossible demands expected of you.

No, not you. Everyone. It wasn't a big deal. He treated everyone the same. You just had to suck it up and give it your best.

Month two was when the cracks began to show. You ran until your lungs burned, the pungent sting of you puking up your lunch afterwards becoming a daily ritual. You practiced drills until you could barely stand, your eyesight bleary and spotty as you tried to force yourself to stay on your feet and focus. You studied volleyball on your own time, watching recordings of old matches and reading self-help books on improving general athleticism.

It became your life, your everything.

But no matter what you did, you just couldn't keep up. Everyone was improving more than you with less effort. The sharp sound of insults being barked at your every mistake became a daily ritual. Your stomach churned, your lungs burned, your heart pounded, and your muscles screamed as you tried your best to keep up.

But you just kept slipping further and further behind.

He was right. You weren't trying hard enough. You were letting everyone down. You weren't good enough. Quit making excuses.

Don't.

Mess.

Up.

Month three was the first time he called you to his office for a special coaching session.

You heard the rumors just like everyone else. You knew what being called to the PE office meant.

As you stood outside the office your heart pounded with bruising force. As soon as you stepped over that threshold, you were willingly throwing yourself into a living hell.

Your meek 'excuse me' was nearly drowned out by the clatter of you opening the door.

Don't.

Make.

A.

Sound.

A hand on your shoulder.

Shit. It's starting again. You have to close yourself off, you have to feel nothing. No, no, you can't go too far. If he starts talking, you have to pay attention. Pay attention. Answer when he asks you a question. Apologize for all the mistakes you've made. Don't mess up. Don't make a sound. Just take it. This is what you deserve for messing up so much. This-

“Mishima-kun?”

The voice that calls your name is soft and gentle, nothing like his. Rapidly, you open your eyes (you hadn't even realized you closed them) and find yourself staring at the floor. You're surrounded by hushed whispers as you begin to regain your sense of time and space.

It's no longer month three.

You're not sure how many months its been, you stopped counting, but you just recently became a second year.

You're not in his office, you're in the classroom.

The curious stares of your classmates burn into your back. You realize you're crouched on the floor, your body curled into a tight ball with your hands covering your head. The books you had been shoving into your bag are scattered around you. Your heart feels like it's clamped in a vice and each wheezing, heaving breath you manage to stutter out fills you with nothing but panic.

It isn't real. He's not here. You have nothing to be scared of.

“Mishima-kun, are you okay? Do you need to go to the nurse?”

It's that voice again, pulling you away from the brink.

Gingerly, you begin to untangle yourself as you try to force your breathing and heartbeat to return to normal. The process is slow, laborious as you once again shove everything back down. No one else is like this. It's only you. You're letting everyone else down. Stop being such a fucking disappointment.

You feel shaky and uncertain as you finally stand up and turn to find Takamaki-san looking at you, her face a mask of concern.

“S-Sorry about that...I guess I just haven't gotten enough sleep lately. I'm okay.”

How many times have you told that lie?

“Are you sure? You still look pale...”

There's another one of the damnable bubbles. Don't do it. Don't take her up on her offer.

“Yeah, sorry, I'm fine.”

She looks like she wants to say something further, but you don't give her the opportunity as you quickly bend down and shove the rest of your textbooks into your bag before practically sprinting for the door. You half expect her to call your name, but behind you all you hear is the rumor mill already at work on churning out a new, juicy tidbit all about you.

Look at you, finally getting the attention you've always wanted.

All it took was for you to give up everything.

Right. Hope is stupid.

Hope was what got you into this in the first place.

So what if a transfer student is coming? They aren't going to change anything. Shit like that only happens in manga and anime. In real life, you have two options – obey or pay the consequences.

At least today you get a break. There's no practice and a new episode of your favorite anime is airing tonight. It's the season finale and last episode stopped right in the middle of the huge, climactic battle. Oh man, the hero was being held at gunpoint by the villain! It was so cool! With a cliffhanger like that, today's episode wa-

“Mishima.”

The punches. The smacks. The “accidental” shoves and tripping and-

Panic. Blind panic.

You don't have the strength to turn around. You don't have the strength to run. You feel your thoughts deflate as you try to concentrate on nothing. It doesn't hurt. It's fine. All you can do is stand there and wait for what you deserve.

“I've been looking for you.”

His voice is right behind you now, dripping with fake cordiality. He's in a bad mood today.

Every bruise burns like a hot brand as that familiar numbness seeps in.

You'll be limping home today.

“O...Oh...?”

You hate your voice for shaking, for showing the fear that you so valiantly try to squash. If only you were better, if only you were stronger, if only...

“I have something important that I need to discuss with you. Can you come to my office?”

That's not actually a question. It's a demand.

Bubble. Bubble.

“Uhm...actually, I promised to help my mom with something today...”

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

You weren't supposed to say that! You weren't supposed to have hope! Someone like you doesn't deserve that!

Shit shit shit!

Time seems to stop and you find yourself wishing the floor would swallow you. No one stands up to him, no one _dares_ to not follow his every whim. By even voicing an excuse, you are signing your own death warrant. You can feel the tension building in the air as you so perfectly, so _clearly_ , imagine the look he's giving you right now.

Your life is over.

“Is that so? Well, then I suppose it can wait for tomorrow. Come to my office immediately after your last class.”

...Huh?

You hear the sound of his retreating footsteps as you stand pinned to the spot. The world seems to move again and all that mounting tension leads to...nothing.

Did that actually just happen? Did you seriously get out of another beating?

This time the barrage of bubbles is absolutely blinding. As you walk towards the entrance of the school, you decide to get a crepe on the way home.

That bubbly, intoxicating feeling in your chest demands some compensation, after all.

* * *

And the next day, he makes sure those bubbles are compensated in full.

You're standing outside the PE faculty office like you have many times before. Every time you're called for a special coaching session, you stand outside this door for at least five minutes trying to prepare for what you're about to face. Sometimes, you hope that another student or teacher will call your name as you stand there, giving you that long sought after out.

They never do.

With your usual weak 'excuse me', you open the door.

Your blood runs cold.

Him you had expected, him you had prepared for as much as you can manage. However, you're not sure what to make of the small, mousy first year with long brown hair who stands by his desk. Judging by the surprised look she's giving you, it's obvious she's not sure what to make of your sudden appearance either.

As you stand there, eyes locked on one another, you begin to file through all the memories you have of her, searching for some reason why she's here. There's not much to go through – you remember seeing her with other members of the female volleyball team and thinking she was kind of cute, but beyond that tenuous connection, there's nothing. You don't even know her name.

Uncertainly, your eyes shift to him and _that smile_.

Hundreds of long faded bruises all seem to flare back to life at once.

There are no bubbles to save you.

“Close the door, Mishima.”

An innocuous request from anyone else, but coming from him, each syllable feels like a physical punch to the chest. Mutely, you obey his order. The click of the door closing rings out like your death knell.

“Sensei...should I leave?”

This time it's the girl who speaks, her voice as mousy and uncertain as her appearance would suggest. You feel your heart clench. You recognize the terrified tremor that undermines her words.

This is her first time being called for a special coaching session.

Your attention is drawn back to him as he stands to his full height, his presence filling the tight, cramped room. You can feel yourself shrink back in response, trying to be as small a target as possible. Already the tremors are starting. Your legs feel weak beneath you.

“No, you can stay. Mishima here needs to learn an important lesson about obedience and I think you're the perfect person to teach him.”

Before the implication of his words even have time to sink in, there's the all too familiar ring of an open palm slapping against flesh and a muffled grunt of pain. Reflexively, you wince, squeezing your eyes shut.

Throw up the walls, but keep your ears open. Ignore the pain. Do what he says.

Don't.

Mess.

Up.

Don't.

Make.

A.

Sound.

Another smack, another grunt.

The sound of a body falling to the floor and muffled, terrified whimpering.

A quiet yelp of pain as the beating escalates to punches. On the face, on the arms, on the stomach, on the legs. Anywhere and everywhere is free game. The uncertainty of where the next blow is going to land only makes the pain worse. He never has any pattern to the areas he chooses, no matter how many beatings you take.

Next he's going to move onto the "accidental" tripping and stumbling and falls. 

But something's wrong here.

There isn't any pain.

You're not being hit.

Yet those familiar, terrifying sounds continue.

Bewildered, you open your eyes. You're still in the PE faculty office, his presence still dominates the room, you're still shaking and terrified and sitting on your butt on the floor.

But you're not the one being hit.

He hasn't raised a finger against you.

He has a fistful of the girl's hair grasped in his hand and he's hauling her off of the floor. You watch in terror as she blindly claws at his hands, her weak struggling doing little to deter him. Your heart stops dead in your chest as you stare.

You stare and you do nothing.

“ _This_ is what happens when you don't listen, Mishima!”

Another slap across her face.

“When you sit around on your ass and don't do as you're told, your teammates pay the price!”

He yanks on her hair, throwing her against the corner of the desk.

“This is all _your_ fault, Mishima.”

Her hair. He keeps pulling on her hair as he whips her like a rag-doll into the desk, the wall - anything within his reach. She can't hold back the sobs, quiet and directionless pleas of “please” escaping her now swollen lips over and over.

“Had you just _listened_ , had you just _done as you were told_ , none of this would have happened to this poor girl. _You_ are the one causing this.”

Your eyes meet hers. She's terrified, she's in pain, she's sobbing, she's begging, she's pleading, she's desperate.

She's scared.

She's so very scared.

And it's all your fault.

Don't mess up.

Don't screw up.

Don't.

Don't.

Again and again and again and again and again.

Not a finger is raised against you, but you feel each blow as if it were your own.

If you had just _listened_ – if you had just _done as you were told_ – none of this would have happened to this poor girl.

 _You_ are the one causing this.

“Please...”

You're the one to speak this time. The sound of your voice causes him to pause as he turns his attention from the girl to you.

“Please...stop.”

The sudden silence in the room hangs heavy over your head, like a guillotine waiting to drop. You stare at the now marred face of the girl, her cute features already distorted with bruises and puffiness. He drags her by her hair once again, but this time he brings her face right into yours.

You're forced to stare into her eyes.

Her ragged exhales tickle your skin.

She's close enough now that you can hear her speaking.

Repeating "please" over and over and over.

“Remember this. _This_ is what happens when you don't do as I tell you to. Do you understand?”

A question. He's asking you a question. You have to answer.

Those eyes. That word.

Over and over and over.

Too long without an answer. He's going to get mad. You have to answer.

He yanks on the girl's hair again, pulling her suddenly away from your face as she gives another moan of terror and pain.

But the next second you're staring at those eyes again, glassy and dull.

Please...please...please...

“I'll ask you again. Do you understand?”

“Yes...”

You manage to croak out the word, but your thought process ends there.

“Yes what? What do you understand?”

Her eyes are beginning to regain their focus.

“That it...that it's my fault this happened.”

Her eyes are staring into yours.

“And what are you going to do next time?”

Her eyes swim with too many emotions to name.

“I'll...I'll listen...I'll do what you say...”

But there's one that you can identify all too clearly.

“And if you don't?”

One that you deserve.

“If I don't...then someone from the team will have to cover for me.”

An accusation.

“That's right. So from now on, you're going to be good and listen.”

 _Your._ _Fault._

“Yes, because it's all my fault.”

He laughs as he throws her body to the side and grabs your hair this time. You're not smart enough to repress the yelp of pain as he tugs you by your bangs so your faces are mere inches apart.

“That's right, this is all your fault. Don't _ever_ forget that. I don't like repeating my lessons, but I will if I have to.”

Numbly, you nod and he releases his vice grip on your hair, throwing you back down to the ground. Too stunned to move, you watch as he nonchalantly returns to his desk, stepping over the girl's limp body on his way.

“You're free to go now, but please take Tanaka-san to the nurse's office. It seems that she's taken a nasty spill. I can't afford having such a promising member benched for too long.”

As if moving on auto-pilot, you help the girl pick herself up off the floor, swinging her arm over your shoulder. The two of you move in silence as you head down the hall, any students you run into quickly averting their eyes and pretending that neither of you exist. The short walk to the nurse's office seems to last an eternity.

It's not until you're right outside the door that you find the strength to say anything.

“I'm sorry...”

* * *

That night, there are scissors in your hand as you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The face that looks back is plain and boring, like it always is, but there's no new bruises to mar it.

Frantically, you take the scissors to your bangs and begin to cut in ragged, uneven strokes. You had been growing them out to look cool, but now...

His fingers wrapping in her hair, slamming her against the wall.

His fingers grabbing you by the hair, hauling you off of the floor.

Please please please.

Your breathing becomes shallow, your palms sweaty, but still you keep snipping away until there's nothing left.

* * *

You find out the next day that she has quit the volleyball team. You never see her again.

Hope is stupid. Hope makes you an idiot. Hope is pointless.

* * *

"Now, what I was going to tell you the other day is that you're going to leak the transfer student's record online."

"But..."

"Did I stutter? Do you need a refresher course in proper obedience?"

"...No. I'll do it..."


End file.
